


Six Degrees of Separation

by circlebackwards



Series: Come Back (to me) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, coming home, pining!dean, spoilers through season 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:50:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2132613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circlebackwards/pseuds/circlebackwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Castiel didn’t stay and one time he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Degrees of Separation

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song 'Six Degrees of Separation' by The Script  
> If you'd like, you can also read _Angels on the Moon_ which is the first part of this series (though it's not strictly necessary since these can stand alone.)

**I.**

First, you think the worst is a broken heart 

Dean turns in a slow circle, arms slack at his sides, as he studies the wreckage that was Chuck’s house. His body posture is deceptively relaxed, but his face is all hard lines and bitterness. Where is all the blood? Surely there must have been more blood than this… Hand trembling almost imperceptibly, he reaches out to touch the red-stained wall. It’s still a little shiny. Dean swallows hard and yanks his hand back.

There is a quiet moment during which he presses his lips tightly together to prevent any ridiculous sound from coming out, and then he gives up. “That stupid son of a bitch,” he lashes out, sending the remaining knick-knacks crashing to the floor. “I can’t believe he went and got himself fucking obliterated. What use is an angel in more pieces than a jigsaw puzzle? That selfish _bastard.”_

“Whoa, man, you know I actually liked those? And I was actually hoping I wouldn’t have to buy new everything…” Chuck trails off at Dean’s hard glare.

Sam carefully steps over a splintered chair. “Dean, he was protecting us. It was his choice, and he really put his neck out all the way.” He snaps his mouth shut when his brother just turns to _look_ at him with the most despairing, saddened eyes he’s ever seen on Dean. His brother wants him to understand _why_ without having to ask why, and in a sudden moment of long-overdue clarity—Sam gets it. “Oh.”

That night, Dean gets drunker than Sam has ever seen him. So his little brother drives him back to the motel, turns him on his side, and tucks him in. And in the morning, Sam doesn’t tell Dean about hearing all the slurred apologies and prayers wept into the darkness.

 

**II.**

What's gonna kill you is the second part

Sam’s up early one morning, unable to sleep with Hell flashbacks terrifying him awake every hour or so. Heading to the kitchen for breakfast, he hears a faint crashing and banging coming from the salvage yard. Immediately on high alert, one of the many stashed guns is in his hand and is outside prowling through the cars. He ducks around a particularly large truck, gun cocked, only to find—Dean.

Who is lugging away large car parts to clear a space in the midst of it all. Sam hesitates, wondering if Dean needs his help doing whatever the hell he was doing. He stops short when Dean begins building something akin to a wooden pyre. He bites his lip, hoping his brother isn't aiming for self-immolation. Sam knows from personal experience burning to death is a total bitch. His heart about thuds out of his chest when Dean begins pouring gasoline over the wood.

Sam holds his breath and waits to see what Dean will do next. Maybe he's been expecting this somewhere along the line, and that's why he isn't very surprised when Dean pulls out the familiar trench coat.

Dean stands there, with his head bowed over the coat, shoulders hunched like those of a slowly dying man. In those long minutes, Sam is able to watch the anger rise through Dean's body like the tide.

Dean's shoulders shake like he’s on the verge of crying, when suddenly he explodes in rage, hurling the coat onto the unlit pyre. He picks up a crowbar and begins an assault on the surrounding junkers. He bashes in each of the windows with vicious movements. When even the windshield is restored to its original state of sand, he turns his rage to the sides and trunk of the car. Once, he even manages to shove the sharp end of the crowbar completely through the side door.

Soon enough, his supply of anger runs dry and he’s bent in half, gasping for breath. Those gasps turn into little hitches in his breath, which turn into full-blown sobs wracking his body. It is the whole-body kind of crying that closes up the throat and constricts the lungs until there’s only a deep, raspy cough forcing its way out of the chest. And that is how, after almost four months of hopeless hope, Dean Winchester finds himself on his knees. Begging Death, begging the Earth, begging God, that if they have only one choice left in this universe, it should be to bring Castiel back.

 _Give him back,_ he cries. _I swear I'll do better next time! I will stand behind him and follow him to the ends of the earth! Just let him turn my life upside down again, and I’ll be grateful._ He screams himself hoarse to the sky. Switching from pleading, to bargaining, to praying, to eventual threats.

_I'll become a devout man, like Sammy._

_I'll stop lusting and sleeping around if you just bring Cas back._

_Dear God, I swear I'll stop interfering with your plans. Whatever it is, the apocalypse, plagues, anything. I’ll quit hunting and keep Cas out of it too. Just let him stay._

_You selfish, deaf sons of bitches! Every single time, we came through for this forsaken planet! No one put more effort into saving this earth than Cas and you abandoned him! I'm coming for you, and I'm gonna kick your ass—god or not._

When his knees are numb and sharp pains are shooting up his neck, and no one or nothing has answered him, he finally stands up and slowly pulls a small lighter out of his pocket. Dean takes a long look at it before slowly flicking it alight and holding over the gasoline-soaked heap.

His hand trembles violently until, with a final sob, he lets his thumb release and chucks the lighter far away to the side. A trapped cry rises in his throat when he relents and tugs the trench coat back into his arms. Dean buries his face in the torn fabric, ignoring the stench of gasoline, and sobs into it. His shoulders heave as he hugs the coat to his chest, as if he is trying to physically absorb it into his being.

Sam hurts for his brother, wondering how many times Dean has been out here like this, trying to destroy the last part of their friend. How many times he’s never been able to. Sam barely manages to catch Dean's broken whisper. Dean's final supplication to the one being he's cursed and blamed the most. "Come back, Cas. You know I can't do this without you. Come home."

 

**III.**

And the third, is when your world splits down the middle

“Wake up.”

Huh. Cas doesn’t sound very okay; Dean wonders why. After all, they’d just demolished that great big Dick Roman. But it’s an easy enough order to obey after just being unconscious, so with a grunt, he opens his eyes and heaves himself to his feet.

“Good. We need to get out of here.” Cas is watching him closely, serious and concerned.

Dean suddenly realizes that they’re no longer in the Sucrocrop building. It takes a moment for him to absorb it all. He shifts uneasily, making the leaves beneath his feet rustle. “Where the hell are we?” Looking around, it’s too dark and foggy for Dean to make out much more than a clearing of trees where they stand.

Cas tilts his head in incredulity. “You don’t know?”

Shrugging, Dean looks back at him. “Last I know, we ganked Dick.” Something is very off about Cas, he decides. It’s difficult to see in the darkness, but the angel definitely looks tense and nervous.

“And where would he go in death?” Cas emphasizes, staring hard at Dean.

Dean looks around in disbelief, a frown worrying his face as realization hits him. “Wait. Are you telling me…?”

“Every soul here is a monster. This is where they come to prey on each other for all eternity.” Cas looks around nervously, becoming more and more aware of the rustling in the far distance and their extreme vulnerability.

“We’re in purgatory? How do we get out?” Dean feels frozen in place. Oh god, no. This can’t happen again. He can’t go through another Hell. His chest feels tight, and a sharp pain in his shoulder almost makes him flash back to Alistair’s rack. No. He needs to stay alert to help Cas and himself. He attempts to ground himself by focusing on Cas, who makes it no easier by moving about and studying their surroundings.

There is a sad apology in Cas’ eyes, which does nothing to assuage Dean’s fear. “I’m afraid we’re much more likely to be ripped to shreds.”

Dean whips around when he hears a low growl. In the trees, he can see nearly half a dozen pairs of menacing eyes. Almost imperceptibly, they begin to move in closer as the growls and snarls get louder. Are those claws? _Hellhounds?—focus, Dean_.

“Cas, I think we better—.” He turns back, only to find that Cas is no longer covering him. “Cas?” he hisses, looking around wildly. The angel’s gone.

Dean feels the dread begin to pool in his chest once more. He pushes aside the oncoming surge of Hell flashbacks and resists the urge to scream. _This isn’t so bad,_ he reflects panickedly. Here it’s possible to fight. All he can see in the darkness are those eyes watching him and occasionally the pale flash of claws or fangs. His jaw quivers and he lick his lips in preparation for a fight. _Not much of a fight_ , he thinks bitterly. No weapons, and no angel. Cas came for him in Hell, he’d come for him in Purgatory, wouldn’t he? Maybe if he can just make it to morning, he can find a way to survive and find Cas.

 

…There will be a morning, right?

 

**IV.**

And fourth, you're gonna think that you fixed yourself

Dean felt a crack resonate through his skull as Cas landed yet another deliberate hit on the side of his face. He gritted his teeth against the pain, trying not to whimper at the fresh wave of agony it brought. “Cas!” He wonders if his friend can see the fear and confusion in the one eye that hasn’t swelled shut. “This isn’t you. This _isn’t you_.”

Cas doesn’t respond, his face remaining an impassive mask as his hand easily and steadily rains down fierce blows upon Dean.

Between the series of indistinguishable punches and the desperate chant of Cas’ name, Dean begs him to snap out of it. “Come on, Cas. Cas, please. Come back to me, buddy.” He painfully reaches up to clutch Cas’ sleeve, tangling his fingers in the fabric as if it would drag the angel back into himself. “I know you're in there. I know you can hear me.” Dean sees the silver flash of the angel blade, but it takes a moment to comprehend. Cas is going to kill him. Cas is going to shove that angel blade into his back and leave him bleeding on the floor of the crypt.

All of a sudden, Dean knows what he needs to say. Not to dissuade Cas from ending him, but just the things he’s been meaning to say all these years but keeps putting off. Every time Cas had screwed up, Dean blamed himself for not making it explicitly clear how much Cas meant to him. Maybe it’s the eleventh hour to say what he needs to say, but then again timing has never been Dean Winchester’s strong suit.

His fingers tighten around Cas’ wrist, struggling to make eye contact. “Cas, It's me,” his voice trembles, and he hates himself for not being strong enough.

“We're family.” He blames his father for teaching him that only blood means family, and how it took years to forget those falsities. Now it’s too late.

“We need you.” He regrets the hunting life for making him wary of commitment. Come _on_ , Winchester. Dig deeper. “I need you.”

Through his one good eye, Dean can see Cas’ hand shiver slightly, and he just barely hears the whisper of, “I choose _him_.”

“Cas.” Now Dean is worried for his friend, and in slow motion, watches the silver blade topple out of Cas’ grasp. It clatters on the floor near Dean, and he flinches away. He lets out a deep breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding and gasps for another lungful of air, tension still running rampant in his nerves.

Dean watches nervously as Cas bends down to pick up the angel tablet, barely attempting to shield himself from the blinding light that begins to emanate.

When the light finally fades, Castiel stands above Dean once more. His hand stretches out, looking in equal parts to deliver death or a benediction. Dean struggles backwards, away from the hand that will be his downfall. “Cas? Cas? No, Cas. Cas!” A tremor runs through Dean, like a bucket of ice, when Cas tenderly rests his hand on the side of his face. With a gasp, all his breaks and bloodied cuts are miraculously gone, and the nausea has abated enough for him to heave himself to his feet.

“Dean, I—I’m so sorry.” Castiel looks so very lost and distraught, but hell, it’s more Cas than Cas has been in a while.

Dean eyes him warily, and takes a healthy step backwards. “What the hell just happened?” The hunter waits in terse silence while Castiel apologetically explains why he’s been playing puppet for the past few months. He finds himself torn between anger and concern. Couldn’t Cas have found a way to break free earlier? Was Cas even okay right now? He sure as hell didn’t look okay.

Cas looks away, unwilling to see the questions in Dean’s eyes and having to reflect back his inability to answer. “I don't know what broke the connection. I just know that I have to protect this tablet now.”

“From Naomi?” Dean hopes, to reassure himself. He searches for Cas’ eyes, worried by his avoidance.

“Yes. And from you.”

It’s like a shot to the chest. Cas doesn’t trust him, even after all they’ve been through. Hell, Cas is the one who should be asking for some slack. “From me? What are you talking about?” Dean feels offence begin to overtake his concern, and then Cas is gone. Simply gone. He looks around the crypt, calling out a few times to make sure that he is actually, truly gone. “Cas? Cas! Damn it.”

Just as hard Dean had pushed himself to let down his guard with Cas, mere minutes earlier, he slammed his walls back up. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. So, Cas didn’t want his help? That’s fine by him. So what if Cas doesn’t trust him enough? Dean was just fine before him, and he’ll be just fine after.

But goddamn, he really does hate being ‘just fine.’

 

**V.**

Fifth, you see them out with someone else

Dean and Sam run back outside the crypt and clamber into the Impala. They look back out the rear window at Meg, just in time to see her stab Crowley with the angel blade, and he in turn shank her. She lets out a pained cry, her bones flashing like lightning through her meatsuit. Dean steps on the gas, and the Impala speeds away in a squeal of tires. On the way back to the bunker, Dean explains in short, angry sentences what happened in the crypt.

“So what are we going to do about Cas and Meg?” Sam asks after it all.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Dean growls, keeping a firm hand on the wheel.

Sam looks at his brother, raising a doubtful eyebrow. “Really? ‘Cause one is the closest thing to a best friend you’ve ever had, and the other is the closest thing to a girlfriend your best friend ever had.”

Dean merely grunts in reply, scowling at the road ahead.

“Meg died for us,” Sam reminds him. “She died for Cas too, no matter what his motives turned out to be.” He continues after his brother remains stonily silent. “And now you’re basically turning your back on them? On Cas?” He shakes his head and looks out the window. “You said you couldn’t take any more lies, man, so I’m laying it all out. You’re being a coward, Dean. Hell, at this point, I’d say Meg deserves Cas more than you do.” He leans back and waits for the inevitable storm. “God knows I haven’t done much to deserve his trust either.”

“Fuck you, Sam.”

  

**VI.**

And the sixth, is when you admit you may have fucked up a little

With Cas’ new role as leader of the cast-out angels, he and Dean rarely see each other anymore. It’s been weeks since they’ve last seen each other, which is why Dean is waiting in the bunker’s entryway and why he isn’t surprised when he hears a knock. Despite all their time apart, and despite most of said time apart having been spent each holding imaginary conversations with each other, they don’t have much to say each other upon meeting.

“It has been a while.”

“You’re here, finally.”

Dean pulls him close for a one-armed hug, and wishes he had the confidence to go all in.

Meanwhile Cas silently wonders how he can possibly ask Dean for more than this.

But of course neither of them ever says anything. Dean leads the way down, deeper into the bunker.

“You look tired, man. Leadership’s been taking that much of a toll on you?” Ducking into the ancient fridge, he grabs two beers and hands Cas one.

Cas slowly rolls the unopened bottle of liquor between his palms, taking the proffered seat in the adjoining library. “Yes. It’s very difficult to coordinate all the efforts and keep track of everyone, and I did not anticipate my grace draining away at such a rapid rate.” He frowns and falls silent, picking at the bottle’s paper label. Peeling it up slowly, he continues, “I also didn’t count on how lonely being a leader would be.” He glances up at Dean, briefly making eye contact. “It’s become apparent that a leader and their follower cannot easily be friends.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees quietly and takes a seat on the couch next to him. “It’s a difficult line to balance on.” He drains half his bottle in one fell swoop, taking a relaxed breath when he pulls off.

Cas awkwardly clears his throat, resting his still-unopened beer on his knee. While studying his strangely new and clean trench coat, it occurs to him how different it is than the one he used in the past years. “How have you been, Dean?”

With a tense, tired smile Dean replies, “I’ve been alright. Stressed and sleeping four hours a night, as always.” When Cas frowns, Dean leaps to reassure him. “No really, I’m great. Everything is just—just… _great.”_

“You ought to sleep more; you need your strength.” Almost tenderly, as if he’s afraid Dean will snap, Cas grasps his forearm. “Please, promise you’ll take care of yourself more, Dean.”

Dean idly scratches his right forearm, trying to ignore the faint burning on his skin hidden by his sleeve. “Promise ya, Cas. Happy?”

“As much as one could be in this situation,” Cas deadpans. After a second, his face breaks into a miniscule smile that Dean returns. The two of them, human and angel, try so hard to catch up all their last few weeks in one night. However, the forces of biology are conspiring against them, and they find sleep trying to overtake them.

“I’m real glad you’re here.” Dean mumbles, attempting not to sleepily slur. Readjusting his head’s position on the couch arm rest, he stretches his legs out and throws an arm behind his head. His breathing slows and becomes shallower, suspended on the razor’s edge of sleep. “Y’should stay awhile, Cas.”

Cas smiles wearily. “I’ll try.” He nestles down into the plush cushion, facing Dean. “And even if I can’t stay long, I’ll come back. I will always come back.”

“I’ll never send you away again,” Dean whispers, a promise and a prayer for forgiveness all in one.

Cas lightly touches Dean’s hand. “I would stay anyway.”

This is how Crowley finds them on the couch when he’s up and about for a midnight drink: curved towards each other like closed parentheses. Dean’s face is pillowed on Castiel’s hand, and the angel’s trench coat is stretched out to blanket them both.

For a brief moment, he considers hurting them, or smoking out, anything to disrupt their peace. In end, for whatever reason, the demon doesn’t snap his fingers and instead quietly returns down to his cell. Perhaps, after everything, Squirrel and the angel deserve this one night. Hell, they probably deserve a lifetime of these nights. He, Crowley, the _King_ of Hell, can afford to give them this one.

 

_“No, there's no starting over without finding closure,_

_You'd take them back, no hesitation,_

_That's when you know you've reached the sixth degree of separation.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any verb tense errors; I'm not used to writing in present tense.  
> Each section takes place in these seasons respectively: 4, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9
> 
> There's also this lovely, ~magical~ thing called feedback that provides more inspiration than any song. c:


End file.
